Years ago, the pater's idea of inspiring me to pick up car driving skills was to draw up a ghastly scenario where a loved one would fall ill, need to be rushed to the hospital, but alas, be failed by my inability to differentiate between 1st and 3rd gear. Shaken to the core, I joined a motor learning school and got my license in 1 month flat.
What a gullible babe in the woods I turned out to be.
In the days leading up to the cousin's wedding, I scanned the guest list and discovered that a lot of relatives had been excavated from under god alone knows what pile of rubble and extended invitations, which they'd accepted. Like I'd mentioned in the last post, family sentiments do not usually stretch themselves to cover the warm, heartfelt "come to my arms" sort of emotions. Family gatherings are stare-down contests involving gimlet eyes, cutting observations and short, furious brouhahas in various corners and rooms.
Not that we're short of the 'jolly uncle' types; they're past masters at extracting maximum amusement out of these occasions and are smart enough to be aware of breakfast, lunch and reception dinner schedules. Sure, they'll be around for the rice chucking but it'll be done in a distracted sort of fashion, keen as they are to go back to their chuckle circle. There's also a few misfits who can be found roaming deserted sections of the hall or balefully staring at all-comers from a corner chair, daring anyone to say something pleasant in passing.
Anyway, a caboodle of the usual suspects arrived en masse and landed up at my grandma's house for further orders because common sense had taken one look at the mob and scrammed and no one had thought to direct these people to their hotel instead. End result - pandemonium. When you've taken planes, trains and automobiles and travelled considerable distances (to Bombay no less!), hunger builds up like a hurricane. Add an assortment of obnoxious kids and frail elders to the mix and one began to wonder if this wedding wasn't a case of biting off more than one could chew. Especially when the catering lady delivered the food about 1.5 hours late.
In these situations, a few level-headed people are needed to organise the kitchen and serve food to the baying throng. That's where you remember occasions in years past where your parents and other relatives in their 30s and 40s would step up and help out. Except now, you're the one in his 30s. So, you pay it forward. It was nice... something good did come out of attending all those ceremonies; I'd absorbed a valuable lesson about roles and responsibilities and was happy to shovel food on plates, solve aplaam shortages and wipe up after the inevitable sambar/rasam/moru spillages had occurred. All was joy, jollity and song until the last satisfied belch had taken place, which is when the question of "how to transport this lot to the hotel" came up. There were two cars available and two drivers needed (the pater & sister kept their abilities well hidden at this juncture, I might add). So, in the middle of the afternoon, when any sane person draws the curtains, turns the fan to max speed and takes a well-earned snooze, I was tasked with corralling relatives into lifts, hefting their inexplicably heavy bags and driving back & forth through Goregaon's narrow and busy roads.
A few rounds of these trips do try a man's soul, I tell you. It takes about a minute for the anxious passengers to realise that you can drive and talk at the same time, so the free nuptial therapy sessions begin with gusto. I smiled at their earnestness, guffawed at their teasing jokes, all the while wondering how many of them would survive a high-impact crash were I to drive full-speed into a handy lamp-post. I'm joking, of course! Self-Sympathy (TM) was deployed at maximum capacity and everyone deposited at the right destination, an exercise that went on for so long that I was in danger of missing the Sangeet ceremony (how that got into a Tamil wedding is still being debated by nonplussed family members) altogether.
As it turns out, that would not have been a tragedy. Because, the nefarious catering lady struck again.
To be continued.
Song for the moment: Bad Brakes - Cat Stevens
What a gullible babe in the woods I turned out to be.
In the days leading up to the cousin's wedding, I scanned the guest list and discovered that a lot of relatives had been excavated from under god alone knows what pile of rubble and extended invitations, which they'd accepted. Like I'd mentioned in the last post, family sentiments do not usually stretch themselves to cover the warm, heartfelt "come to my arms" sort of emotions. Family gatherings are stare-down contests involving gimlet eyes, cutting observations and short, furious brouhahas in various corners and rooms.
Not that we're short of the 'jolly uncle' types; they're past masters at extracting maximum amusement out of these occasions and are smart enough to be aware of breakfast, lunch and reception dinner schedules. Sure, they'll be around for the rice chucking but it'll be done in a distracted sort of fashion, keen as they are to go back to their chuckle circle. There's also a few misfits who can be found roaming deserted sections of the hall or balefully staring at all-comers from a corner chair, daring anyone to say something pleasant in passing.
Anyway, a caboodle of the usual suspects arrived en masse and landed up at my grandma's house for further orders because common sense had taken one look at the mob and scrammed and no one had thought to direct these people to their hotel instead. End result - pandemonium. When you've taken planes, trains and automobiles and travelled considerable distances (to Bombay no less!), hunger builds up like a hurricane. Add an assortment of obnoxious kids and frail elders to the mix and one began to wonder if this wedding wasn't a case of biting off more than one could chew. Especially when the catering lady delivered the food about 1.5 hours late.
In these situations, a few level-headed people are needed to organise the kitchen and serve food to the baying throng. That's where you remember occasions in years past where your parents and other relatives in their 30s and 40s would step up and help out. Except now, you're the one in his 30s. So, you pay it forward. It was nice... something good did come out of attending all those ceremonies; I'd absorbed a valuable lesson about roles and responsibilities and was happy to shovel food on plates, solve aplaam shortages and wipe up after the inevitable sambar/rasam/moru spillages had occurred. All was joy, jollity and song until the last satisfied belch had taken place, which is when the question of "how to transport this lot to the hotel" came up. There were two cars available and two drivers needed (the pater & sister kept their abilities well hidden at this juncture, I might add). So, in the middle of the afternoon, when any sane person draws the curtains, turns the fan to max speed and takes a well-earned snooze, I was tasked with corralling relatives into lifts, hefting their inexplicably heavy bags and driving back & forth through Goregaon's narrow and busy roads.
A few rounds of these trips do try a man's soul, I tell you. It takes about a minute for the anxious passengers to realise that you can drive and talk at the same time, so the free nuptial therapy sessions begin with gusto. I smiled at their earnestness, guffawed at their teasing jokes, all the while wondering how many of them would survive a high-impact crash were I to drive full-speed into a handy lamp-post. I'm joking, of course! Self-Sympathy (TM) was deployed at maximum capacity and everyone deposited at the right destination, an exercise that went on for so long that I was in danger of missing the Sangeet ceremony (how that got into a Tamil wedding is still being debated by nonplussed family members) altogether.
As it turns out, that would not have been a tragedy. Because, the nefarious catering lady struck again.
To be continued.
Song for the moment: Bad Brakes - Cat Stevens
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